The Things That Matter Most
by thanksforthecrumb
Summary: Her control is slipping. Everything is slipping. Her grasp on the world is sliding through her fingers as his body loses warmth. He is her tether, her safety net. He is the one thing that made everything bearable, regardless of his stupid decisions, his flash-temper, his need to be right in everything.


There will be no children. There will be no happy, busy, tired days. There will be no excruciating, exasperating privy council meetings endured together. There will be no awkward moments after a fight. There will be no happy, victorious moments after a successful trade negotiation. There will be no moments. There will be no happiness. There will be no Francis. There will be no life.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

She can't force herself to think of anything but that, can't nudge her brain or heart in any other direction.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

He is a liar. A dead, unmoving liar. _I will be by your side,_ he'd said. _Well, you're not Francis! You told me you would, but you're not. _Soon she is crying in her mind as well as in the cruel, harsh outside world. They are bitter tears. Not quite sad tears, but bitter, angry tears. He is a liar.

But he's also the most honest man she knows. Knew. _I'll pressure you, and argue with you, and listen to you, and love you until the day I die._

But it's too soon. Everything is too soon. He shouldn't have died. Not in this way, not in this time.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

He is gone forever. Never will she feel his gentle fingers caress her cheek, his hand brush her hair, his lips stroke hers. She will never hold him, never wrap her arms around him and feel his response, his arms enfolding her waist, burying his curly head into her shoulder. She will never feel it again. She fears she is already forgetting every moment she spent with him.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

Her control is slipping. Everything is slipping. Her grasp on the world is sliding through her fingers as his body loses warmth. He is her tether, her safety net. He is the one thing that made everything bearable, regardless of his stupid decisions, his flash-temper, his need to be right in everything.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

And she is in love. She is still in love, even as he lies motionless atop their bed, the blankets pulled to his chest, his empty blue eyes staring upward forever. She is in love with the gentle curve of his forehead, majestic and pale, his blond curls framing his face. She is in love with the flaxen shadow of his beard, the sunlight glinting off it and making it shine a brilliant gold. She is in love with his delicate nose, its peak forming a nearly square edge. She is in love with his blue eyes, those eyes that mirrored her love for him. She saw it all reflected in his eyes. She saw it all. She is in love with this man, this beautiful, dead man.

But he is more than that. He was—_is—_her best friend, her companion, her consort, her king, her confidant, her husband, her lover. And he is dead.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

_I am never going to let you go. _A ghost Francis appears behind her eyes. She swears she can feel the warm weight of his hands on hers, feel the pleading tug of his eyes. But it is not Francis. It is not him.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

_I am never going to let you go._

_But you _did_! You _did_! _she screams silently. He let go, and she is still holding on. She is lost, and she no longer has her guiding star with her. She no longer has his hands to cup her face as his eyes stare into hers. She will never be comforted by his warm, safe embrace, never be soothed by his gentle, whispered words tickling her ear. She will never again feel the prickle of annoyance as he tries to fix everything, do everything right. She will never again glance to her side, knowing he is standing right next to her and rejoicing in his closeness, the way he watches her and moves beside her. He has flown to the heavens. He is gone. He has left her.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

What is she supposed to do now? Is she supposed to pick up the shattered pieces of her life, of her heart, gather them into her arms, and make a perfect picture out of them? It will never be perfect. Not without Francis. Not without him.

Is she supposed to carry on? Pretend that nothing ever happened? Because things _did_ happen. _Everything_ happened. She fell in love, made foolish decisions, fell in love again, made even more foolish decisions. And here she is. Falling in love. Making foolish decisions.

She is staring at nothing, and yet everything, as she realizes she is gazing at Francis's still body. Her eyes are unfocused and set on his chest. She is sure she can see it rising and falling, sure she can hear the delicate rustling of his breath through his nose. She is sure that he will stir in a moment, glance at her, his eyes softening as they reach hers, ask her what time it is. She is sure he will wake up and swoop down on her for a quick kiss. But far down, buried in the depths of her heart she knows he won't.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

She longs to touch his face, feel the familiar roughness of his beard, the smooth of his lips. But she will not, because she knows if she reaches a hand to caress his cheek, it will be unfamiliar. He will be cold and still and unmoving. And utterly dead.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

She sits in her chair by his bedside and watches him, hands in her lap. She stares at him dully. All is quiet. All is calm. The thin drapes on the windows flutter gently from some unknown breeze. Morning sunlight filters through the glass panes and shines on the ground, illuminating dancing particles of dust in the chamber. She can hear twitters and warbles, the spring songbirds crooning their joy. Everything is silent. Everything is peaceful.

The man lying on the bed before her is certainly peaceful. His hands are clasped over the neatly pulled silk sheets, his arms bent symmetrically, his face perfectly centered amidst the soft white pillow. Everything about him is gentle.

But everything about him is also wrong. _Her_ Francis would not lie, his eyes staring at the ceiling, completely still. _Her_ Francis would turn to face her, smile as he watched her blink sleepily at him. _Her_ Francis would laugh and whisper a raspy _good morning_ in her ear, his hot, sometimes fetid breath enveloping face. _Her_ Francis would comment on the songbirds, maybe even try to whistle one of their songs. _Her _Francis would make puppy eyes at her when she started to get out of bed, tried start the morning productively. _Her _Francis would beg for a few moments extra so they could just lie there, in each other's arms, content to block out the world, block out everything but the warmth and safety and security they gave each other. _Her_ Francis was anything but _this_ Francis.

Her lip starts to wobble. Before, it had been silent tears that leaked out from under her lashes. They had run down her face slowly. Now, she can feel a sob building, tightening, in her chest.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

_You do have a way of leaving chaos in your wake._

_Shut up! Shut _up_!_ she yells at his voice. She sniffles.

Chaos. Is that what this is? Is this desolate, dark feeling, this terrible, awful feeling, chaos? Did she leave chaos for him, throw his world in a panic, the same way he's doing now? Has she finally tread into her own chaos?

He was always right, then.

_Love is irrelevant to people like us._

_Go away,_ she tells him. _Go away and leave me alone._

_I am never going to let you go._

And she realizes then. He hadn't lied when he'd told her that. She is still holding on, and so is he. He will never release his grasp on her life, her heart. Even as he lies before her, not moving, not breathing. He will never let her go. And she hates him for that. But she is also a bit relieved. She finds comfort in knowing that he will never leave her. Not truly. And yet she agonizes at the same time. He will never truly leave her, but he will never truly be with her.

_To carry the weight of your dead heart, with you every night and day until you find your grave._

The words of the dead count come back to her in a flash. She understands him now. She understands. She feels the weight he spoke of, feels it ripping her apart, weighing her down. And if he is—_was_—right, she cannot escape this. Not until she's buried by Francis's side. Not until she is dead and motionless and peaceful like he is.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

And she can't remember. She can't remember what his last words to her were. She can't remember and it's driving her mad. Maybe it is she who is the liar. Maybe it was never him. It was always her.

_I remember it all. Every word, every moment for the rest of my life._

She hears her voice in her own head. She longs for it to be true, longs to remember everything she's ever done with this man, even all the insignificant, tiny things. The things that matter most. She needs to feel, to remember.

She screws her eyes shut. She imagines she is on the lake near the castle. She is sitting in a small boat. A small rowing boat. She is not alone. Directly in front of her is her husband. He sits there smiling, happy and pleased with this boat, a life-size version of the tiny, symbolic one he'd made her months ago. The _Just Mary_.

_"Are we going to go anywhere, Francis, or are we going to sit and drift across the lake until we reach Scotland?" she laughs at him as he grins proudly, crossing his arms over his chest._

_"What? You mean to tell me you don't _like_ sitting and drifting? _I_ find it perfectly enjoyable." He raises his eyebrows innocently._

_She rolls her eyes at Francis. "Get on with it, then, you lazy ass."_

_He pretends to be wounded. Grudgingly, he picks up the paddles and begins to dip them in the water, thrusting the boat forward. They are speeding by clumps of green grass, passing the occasional white goose. Mary laughs at Francis's red face. He is huffing and chuffing short puffs of breath as he moves the boat with long, languid strokes._

_It is then that Mary notices a small trickle of water creeping through the floor of the craft. She giggles nervously at the sight. "Francis," she says, tugging on his shirt. "Francis."_

_"_What_ is it? I'm having a bit of a hard time, if you hadn't noticed," is his overly flippant reply. She suspects he isn't having _that_ much trouble, but he does look a bit fatigued._

_"Francis, I think there's a leak in your boat."_

_"_Our_ boat," he corrects. He furrows his brow, not taking his eyes off the water. "And what do you mean? I checked it."_

_"Francis, it's leaking."_

_He curses, embellishing it with an extremely overdone Spanish accent. "Just—just put your foot on it before it starts sinking us. I'll try to find a place where we can—"_

_But it's too late. Mary tries to stuff her shoe into the leak, but the water's already filling the boat, rapidly gushing in. It's safe to say that at least an inch of water is now inhabiting the floor of the boat. Mary laughs nervously._

_"Good God." Francis starts paddling furiously, trying to reach a place where they can escape the quickly sinking boat. It becomes clear that there is no way to evade a plunge in the water as the craft continues to fill with water, the hull disappearing into the lake's green maw._

_"What do we do?" Mary is still laughing a bit hysterically._

_Francis gives her an affectionate smile. "I hope you don't mind getting wet." He puts a hand into the water gingerly. "God, it's cold." He swings a leg over the side of the boat, testing the depth of the lake floor to their boat, narrowing his eyes and staring critically at the water. "I don't think it's too deep. We should survive." He laughs at Mary's stricken face. "It's all right, Mary. I'll make sure we make it back to the castle. I'll keep you safe."_

_He takes her hand, rubbing a thumb over hers reassuringly. She looks at him, a tiny smile still playing on her lips. Francis nods gently and the two slip into the water. It's cold and dark beneath the lake's surface. Mary feels her hair billowing around her, the odd swish of plant and water current against her bared legs. Her skirts have ballooned around the two of them, dragging her down. She can see Francis's face, eyebrows raised, shouting to her in vain. All she hears are loud explosions of bubbles as they erupt from his mouth. He shakes his head and grabs her wrist, vigorously shoving aside the water with his other hand. Mary feels her body being pulled up, sees Francis glance down at her as they get closer to the surface. She kicks out her legs, hoping to aid Francis. They're almost to the air. She grins._

Then, suddenly, abruptly, she is not at the bottom of the lake. She is in a wooden chair facing a bed, bright sunlight warming her back. The lake is gone. The sinking boat is gone. Francis is gone.

He's _truly_ gone. The shock of it is like a slap in the face. She rubs her eyes furiously, refusing to see the body of her husband lying before her. But she still sees it—him—no matter how hard she tries not to.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

All that he had been was her Everything. All that he is now is Dead.

He is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

She is dead. She is dead. She is dead.


End file.
